


Marks On A Page

by taormina



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), steve takes care of bucky - Fandom
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Bucky, M/M, Scars, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6773833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story about Bucky’s scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks On A Page

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Mentions of self-harm from the start.

At first, Bucky thought he did it to torture himself. He’d done bad, irredeemable things in his life, and therefore, he deserved to feel bad, irredeemable things in return. In Bucky’s head, it more than made sense.

It started as a mistake, an action undertaken by someone so very sad and angry and overwhelmed by everything in and around him, but then the addiction started. A habit was formed. One cut became many cuts, and soon the feeling of skin being sliced open by sharp blades across his right, naked thigh became Bucky’s only way to repent for his sins. Perhaps if he did it often and deep enough, all the guilt would come bleeding out. Leave a stain on the carpet, only for it to be washed out and forgotten. He might even feel like he was in control of his own body now, if only for a short, stinging second.

But then the anger and guilt disappeared and left only ache and sadness, and it turned out he didn’t do it to torture himself at all. He did it because it was the only thing that hurt more than the painful, fragmented memories in his head. Quite simply, he harmed himself in order to forget.

Like his dear old friend, Bucky could still see vague images of friends being killed in the war. Fragments of innocent men and women he’d killed in the name of an organisation that he could no longer stand the sight of. A still image of a bloodied shirt. A brief flash of life and innocence dying out in a child’s eyes.

Sometimes, he even felt flashes of scents and touches he knew had once been Steve’s. Those hurt more than anything.

And boy, did it hurt. Each drawn line hurt more than the previous one, and when he thought he’d finally gotten over the ache, the fabric of his sheets or jeans would brush against a small cut and make the pain start all over again. Sometimes he could hardly even sleep because of it, but then again he didn’t do much sleeping anyway.

Still Bucky kept going, and by the time he’d perfected the stroke of his stinging, aching brush, his combat scars became indistinguishable from the ones he’d inflicted himself. Once upon a time he could tell a lover or friend exactly which bastard had shot or injured him when and where, but now his legs were an ever-expanding, rough landscape. The exciting stories of bullet wounds no more, for his body had become one big canvas he could hardly look at.

But no one else ever saw his legs, so no-one ever mentioned it. Slowly Bucky had come to assume that if he did this job quietly no one would ever tell, but Steve could. Every time. He saw the cuts. The blood on Bucky’s fingers as he slipped into a bathroom. The blade that was carefully hidden in a pillow underneath his bed.

Steve could see it all, and so when he and Bucky suddenly, finally made slow and gentle love on a lazy afternoon, he quietly kissed every single one of these wounds. He said nothing and told no-one, but it meant the world to Bucky that someone could kiss something so sad so softly.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after I'd had an undignified breakdown, so I'm sorry if this is messy.


End file.
